How to Break a Terrorist (14 page)

A
VIDEO PLAYS ON
the flat-screen TV in the conference room. Randy has put the CD in the desktop computer. We saw parts of this video a few days ago when Zarqawi released it as his latest public bid for jihad against our forces. It shows him flanked by masked men with M4s, one of which has a grenade launcher. Later, he blasts through probably two hundred rounds with an M249 SAW light machine gun, insinuating that his men had captured the weapon from American soldiers they’d killed.

This version of the video is slightly different: At one point, Zarqawi is seated between his men spouting hate. But then the camera view changes. He’s outside, fumbling with the SAW. He fires a few rounds and it stops. He’s puzzled. A hooded terrorist steps from off camera left and charges the weapon by pulling back its bolt. When that happens, the conference room erupts in laughter.

Zarqawi obviously knows nothing about guns. The video
continues; now he’s got the SAW rocking. He empties the two-hundred-round box magazine as his minions scream
Allah akbar! Allah akbar!
Everyone’s dressed in terrorist black, complete with hoods that reveal only their eyes and the bridges of their noses. Zarqawi wears a black do-rag and shiny white New Balance sneakers that make him look vaguely like a wannabe hip-hop artist. Strapped to his chest is an Eastern Bloc ammo vest—meant for holding AK-47 magazines. The whole scene is ridiculous.

It gets better moments later. Zarqawi walks toward a white pickup truck. In the background, one of his minions carries the SAW by a metal handle mounted on the top of the weapon’s receiver. Another minion walks up to the first one. They trade weapons. Minion number two grabs the SAW by the barrel. Big mistake.

Everyone in the conference room breaks out laughing again.

Firing a SAW causes the barrel to heat up, just as it would any other machine gun. Minion number 2 registers heat, then pain, and drops the barrel. Minion number one catches the SAW before it hits the ground.

The video ends a few seconds later.

This is not only amusing, it’s significant. This is the raw, unedited footage shot for Zarqawi’s latest propaganda video. At the very least we can release this to the media and make him look like a fool. More important, this cut is obviously not something Al Qaida wanted passed around. Whoever this came from has to be close to Zarqawi’s inner circle. Randy speaks.

“This video was found on a laptop hidden in the living room of the safe house Abu Gamal gave us. We raided it last
night. Inside, the strike team encountered three suicide bombers. All three blew themselves up. None of our guys were hurt.” He pauses for effect. I know he wishes he could be out there with them. That used to be his life, and he misses it.

“There were two other individuals in the house. One male. One female. The male died in the explosions. The female died while being transported to an area hospital.”

He lets that sink in. “We’re close, people. The people inside the apartment obviously knew Zarqawi. One of them could have been videotaping Zarqawi’s last release. Chances are good that Zarqawi was at that location in the past few days.”

The news electrifies the room.

“There’s one other thing,” Roger interrupts. This is rare. Usually our interrogation unit commander is content to let Randy run things. This is actually a good thing as Roger’s not anywhere near as dynamic or aggressive a leader as Randy.

“In the back bedroom, the team discovered two boys. One is fourteen. The other is twelve. Their parents lived in the apartment and died in the blast. The three suicide bombers were staying with them, sleeping on the living room floor.”

They saw the carnage that became of their apartment? Their parents dead on the floor? The suicide bombers blown to bits all over the walls and ceiling? These poor kids.

“Look,” Roger says, trying to sound stern. He doesn’t quite pull it off. He’s too nice. “Nobody talks to these children without my approval, got it? Everything goes through me on this one.”

He says a few last words and then leaves the conference room. Randy steps back up in front of everyone and says, “Close the door in back, please.” Somebody does. As soon as it is shut, Randy looks around the room. In a cold, stern voice he tells us, “Ignore that. I’m fucking in charge here. I make the decisions. Got it?”

No argument there.

The meeting breaks up. I head to the ’gator pit to meet with Steve and Cliff. Both Steve and I are qualified to talk with children. As criminal investigators we had to take classes on this issue, and we have experience interviewing them. We have a female ’gator on the night shift with similar qualifications.

I resolve to take the kids. This needs to be handled gently, and they’re obviously scared and suffering from what just happened to their family.

Cliff tells us, “Forget about the oldest kid, Jamal. He’s mentally disabled or something. It looks like his family pretty much ignored him.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, they left him out of everything. Apparently, he just stayed out in the fields all day and tended the family goats.”

“Okay, what about the younger boy?”

“Naji is his name. He’s twelve. And he’s a piece of work.

“Last night he told Megan that because she was wearing pants and no head scarf she was an infidel whore.” Megan is a ’gator who works the night shift.

“No way,” Steve and I start cracking up.

“More than once, actually. He’s pretty convinced that all American women are whores.”

“Steve,” I say, “we’re going to handle this very carefully. We won’t interrogate, we’ll interview. Got it?”

“Of course.”

“We won’t run any approaches. We’ll just ask questions.”

“Right.”

“You talk to him first.”

I walk over to Randy’s desk and tell him what we have in mind. He approves. We take up stations. I head for the Hollywood room. Steve retrieves Naji from a storage room where both brothers are sleeping on mattresses brought in for them.

A moment later, Steve and Naji walk into a booth. I put on headphones and tune in.

Steve puts Naji in a big, comfortable, leather chair. The high back and wide arms simply swallow the poor kid. He’s skinny with brown skin, a black head of hair, and soft brown eyes that stare intently at whatever he’s focused on.

Biggie is the ’terp for this one. Biggie is an Iowan now, but he was born in southern Iraq. He’s a huge man with oversized feet, hands, and ears. He’s jowly too, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and piercing black eyes. The first time I saw him, he scared the hell out of me, but he’s a gentle giant.

Steve starts with basic pleasantries. Biggie translates everything with a soft voice that sets Naji at ease. The boy is matter-of-fact in all his replies. He seems like a good enough kid.

During a lull in the conversation, I see him take the ini
tiative. He rattles off a few sentences, all in that matter-of-fact tone. Whatever he said, it struck Biggie as odd. He looks at Naji, then Steve, then back at Naji. The ’terp shares another exchange with the boy, then sighs.

“He says, ‘You Americans are all infidels and deserve to die.’”

Steve looks over at this child. He looks so frail and unassuming. Yet his eyes are lively. What is in them? I can’t tell from the monitor.

“Don’t you think we’re just all people, and we need to get along?” Steve asks. Biggie translates. The boy shakes his head violently. Words pour from his mouth.

“No,” Biggie says, “You’re all infidel pigs. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to cut your heads off.”

Such violent words from such a scrawny kid seem so incongruous that it’s hard not to smile. Steve and Biggie actually laugh a little. Then clearly it strikes them. This kid has been marinated in Al Qaida propaganda. He’s the face of our future. They stop smiling.

Naji shrugs his shoulders. “I hate you all. Someday, I will have my own knife. I will use it to behead infidels.”

“He’s twelve,” I say to myself as I watch spellbound from the Hollywood room.

Steve decides to press on. “Naji, who were the men living with you in your apartment?”

Biggie looks unsure about asking this, but he does it. Naji waves a hand casually, “They are suicide bombers. They came to us four days ago. I know one of them is Saudi, but I don’t know where the others are from.”

He’s using the present tense. Does he not realize they’re all dead?

“Do you know who this is?” Steve asks as he shows him a photo of Zarqawi.

“Of course, that is Abu Musab al Zarqawi. He is our hero.”

“Your hero?”

“Of course! When we play, the tallest, biggest kid gets to be Zarqawi.”

Steve can’t help himself. “What do you play, Naji?”

“
Mujahideen.
I will grow tall someday, and then I will get to be Zarqawi.” Again, he uses the same matter-of-fact monotone. It gives me chills.

“Why were suicide bombers at your house?”

“They were preparing for a mission. A glorious one.”

“What was that?” Steve asks.

“I do not know. Somewhere in Baghdad.” Naji pauses, then he falls out of that peculiar monotone. For just a flash, fear and worry creep into his voice. “Where are my parents? Why am I not with them?”

Oh shit. He doesn’t know. Go easy, Steve.

Steve looks momentarily stricken. But he rallies quickly and replies, “Your parents are in the hospital. They were injured when the suicide bombers exploded in your apartment.”

“Oh. Can I have something to drink?” The monotone returns.

Biggie hands him a Coke. He drinks lustily from the can.

Steve begins to probe for details. Naji is proud to be able to provide them. He tells Steve that his father handpicked him to be a leader in Al Qaida someday. Jamal was the castaway son the father never showed favor toward. Naji was the family’s rising star. His dad groomed him well.

“My father took me to every meeting!” he brags.

“Where were these meetings?” Steve asks.

Naji has a remarkable memory. Meeting by meeting, he details who was there, how many guns were stored at the house, what was discussed, and what plans were made. He tells all to Steve without understanding the consequences to his father’s cell. From the information he provides, it isn’t hard to tell that Naji’s dad was a mid-to high-level Al Qaida officer who had ties all over Yusufiyah and the Anbar Province.

By the time the interview ends an hour later, Steve’s filled up pages in his notebook with detailed information about Naji’s father’s network.

Back in the ’gator pit, Steve and I marvel at all the intel Naji has provided—the names, the locations; he’s pinpointed the better part of Al Qaida’s operation around Yusufiyah. It is amazing.

“The kid brags about everything. He’s trying to show me how much his father trusted him.”

“I know,” I reply. “He has no idea what he’s just done to all his dad’s friends.”

Steve nods, then turns serious. “The kid’s been brainwashed.”

“Totally.”

“Matthew, he’s a Kool-Aid-drinking Al Qaida member. At twelve.”

“You know the irony?” I say. “He’s the only one I’ve seen here so far.”

I marvel at this.

“Me too.”

“And he’s twelve. Twelve.”

“The wave of the future.” Steve and I just stare at each other, unable to speak. I know the same thought crosses both of our minds.
How are we ever going to win this war? We can’t reeducate all the Najis out there.

Steve looks out across the ’gator pit. “We’re going to be in Iraq a long, long time.”

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON,
I struggle to get through all the reports that have been kicked back to me for various formatting errors. Aside from Naji’s wealth of information, we haven’t had much progress today. Mary interrogated Abu Haydar. From the Hollywood room, I watched him toy with her again. She and Tom are set to interrogate Abu Bayda later today. I doubt much will come of that. None of the other interrogations are related to the Group of Five except for Steve’s session with Abu Raja.

I can’t get over Naji. How can a kid be filled with so much hate? How can he be so intelligent yet so totally naïve about the consequences of what he’s telling us? No matter. His information will save many lives. Based on his first interrogation. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and find another big fish somewhere in the mix.

“Matthew, I hear Steve call to me.

I turn around. Steve looks elated. “What’s up?” I ask.

“Fucking Abu Raja. You’ll never believe who he is.”

“What? Who?”

“I told him that Ismail copped to working for him.”

“Yeah? What did he do?”

“At first he was pretty shocked. He tried to cover for Ismail. Said he only worked for him one time.”

“You know, that’s actually pretty noble of him.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that too. Still, he admits that he’s Al Qaida’s media guy.”

“What? You mean for Baghdad?”

Steve shakes his head. His grin grows even wider, “For Iraq. For all of Iraq.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, holy shit. All those videos—the beheadings, the executions, the attacks on our convoys—all those things came from Abu Raja and his group.”

All over Baghdad, anyone can buy cheap DVDs and CDs showing these things. It’s Al Qaida’s propaganda effort. And they’ve been kicking our tails for the past two years on this front. Our paltry press releases and leaflet campaigns have not dampened their ability to recruit.

“Great job.”

“Thanks. I gotta write it up.” He dashes off to his desk and starts hammering on his keyboard.

“I knew it!” I hear Randy exclaim from across the ’gator pit. I see Randy buried in piles of paper. He’s examining a photograph and swearing under his breath. He calls Cliff over. “Does that look like Abu Bayda?”

“Yeah, about twenty years ago.”

Abu Bayda’s the oldest member of the Group of Five.
He’s also a source of growing friction between Randy, Tom, Lenny, and Mary. They’ve been interrogating him without success now for two weeks. For the past few days, the ’gators have been recommending his transfer to Abu Ghraib. Randy’s not ready to give up. He’s got a feeling about these guys, especially Abu Bayda.

So he’s been digging through old intelligence reports. He’s been around longer than almost everyone else in the compound. He’s the institutional memory here and he’s not afraid to go digging through the old files in search of clues. It looks like he just found one.

Abu Bayda’s been using a false identity. He’s actually Hassan from Tal Afar, and he is the known leader of Al Qaida’s operations in northern Iraq. Cliff goes back to his desk and runs his real name through a database.

“Says here his son was just picked up by Iraqi police. He’s in a Shia prison right now.”

“You’re kidding me?” Randy asks.

“No. He’s down in Basra. Kid’s only seventeen. Look, we have a photo of him.”

A flurry of activity erupts in the ’gator pit. Cliff calls down to the prison and confirms they have Abu Bayda’s son. The Shia-dominated police grabbed him though he doesn’t seem to have done anything wrong. Abu Bayda’s real identity is well known around Iraq, especially amongst the Shias he has victimized so thoroughly with suicide attacks and bombings. It seems as if the Shia might have snatched his son as a hostage.

It takes some negotiating, but Randy manages to get him transferred to us. Within hours of his discovery, Randy’s got Abu Bayda’s son flying to our compound.

Now we have leverage.

I hurry over to the Hollywood room.

Mary and Tom sit down in one of the booths. Abu Bayda comes in, black mask over his face. The guard escorts him to his seat and leaves.

Tom holds up a copy of the photo we’ve just found of his son, who is in his prison uniform, looking miserable.

“Take your mask off please,” Tom tells him.

Abu Bayda does as instructed. The first thing he sees is the photo of his son.

“Your son is in a prison in Basra,” Tom tells him.

Abu Bayda can’t even respond. He starts to quiver from his head to his hands. His eyes are rooted on the photograph.

“Hassan al Tal Afar!” Tom exclaims, “Your son is in a Shia prison.”

“P–p–please,” Abu Bayda whispers. He reaches for the photo. Tom lets him stroke his son’s face. In past interrogations, Abu Bayda was a strapping and rugged older man in his mid-sixties. He retained an aura of power that Lenny, Tom, and Mary had been unable to penetrate. Now he is deflated. He starts to cry. He throws his hands in the air next to his head and utters Allah’s name.

Tom offers him the most addictive thing in the world: hope.

“Hassan al Tal Afar. I can have your son here today. You can see him.”

Through his tears, Abu Bayda searches Tom’s face. Is this a trick? He’s suspicious. Little does he know that his son’s already on his way to us.

“My son is not involved,” he moans.

“No. He’s not. We know that.”

“Why is he in a Shia prison?”

“We don’t know why, but I can get your son here today.”

Tom leans forward and places the photo in Abu Bayda’s hands. The old man’s fingers are shaking so hard that he nearly drops it. He fixates on the image of his seventeen-year-old boy in a prison jumpsuit. The son of one of Al Qaida’s most fearsome leaders, the commander of all of northern Iraq, the boy would not survive in a Shia-run prison. Abu Bayda knows it.

“You can see him. We can get him out.”

“How can I trust you?”

Tom leans forward. He says reassuringly, “You help us, and your son will be here.”

“You bring my son here. You get him out of that Shia prison forever, and I will tell you whatever you need to know.”

“Can we trust each other?” Tom asks warily.

“He is my youngest son. I have tried to shield him from my work. He is not involved in any way so this would not happen.” He can’t continue. Through more sobs, I hear him struggle to say, “I will help you any way that I can.”

“Let’s talk then,” Tom says.

“No,” Abu Bayda regains a fragment of composure. “I won’t say a word until I see my son.”

An hour later, his son arrives by helicopter. He’s immediately brought to us, and a guard brings him into the interrogation booth. His son is so shocked that all he can say is, “Father? Father?” Abu Bayda puts his hand to the boy’s head and pulls his forehead to his own. With his right hand he pats his heart. Both father and son weep.

“
Alhamdullilah
,” Abu Bayda says, giving praise to Allah.

I can’t help but think that Abu Bayda knows Al Qaida would never be this merciful to one of us, were the roles reversed. He must know what a gift he’s just been given.

All too soon, the moment ends. The guard takes Abu Bayda’s son away from him and places him in our cellblock.

Abu Bayda collapses into his chair. He wipes the tears away and then looks Tom right in the eyes. Man to man, he says, “Thank you.” He turns to look at Mary. “Thank you. Thanks be to Allah. You have been merciful to me.”

I hear the words in my head from the meeting a couple weeks ago when I suggested using the Love of Family approach.
When he joined Al Qaida he wrote off his family.
I hear the analyst’s laughter.

Abu Bayda takes a deep breath, exhales, and begins to talk.

Abu Bayda swore allegiance to Abu Musab al Zarqawi and Al Qaida. He tells us that he was willing to give his life for him and for the cause. He believes in the Al Qaida ideology. He wants to see a caliphate established and a global jihad unleashed to spread the word of Allah. He also tells us that he is a member of Al Qaida’s Mujahideen Shura Council. This is the group of senior leaders who control the war effort against America in Iraq.

Abu Bayda admits to being the leader of the entire network around Mosul and details his logistical operations. Weapons flow in from Iran and are spread through the region. A circuit of safe houses is used to move suicide bombers, weapons, ammunition, and explosives from one area to another. Over the course of the day’s interview, he gives us several hard targets.

But he doesn’t give us Zarqawi. He doesn’t give us anyone over him. And he doesn’t tell us why he was in a farmhouse near Abu Ghraib, hundreds of miles from his area of operations. Most puzzling of all, he refuses to tell us any more about Abu Haydar. Why is he protecting him?

At the 2300 meeting we have a lot to discuss. It turns out that we’ve got two senior Al Qaida officials in the prison. And with the intel we’ve just gained from them and from Naji, we have enough targets to keep the special forces busy for weeks.

“This is great work, people,” Randy tells us. “But we’re still not any closer to Zarqawi. We’ve moved laterally and down, and we’re going to be rolling up a lot of networks in the next few days, but we’ve got to move up.”

He slaps Abu Haydar’s face on the overhead projector. “Mary?”

Mary stands. “He gave us nothing today. He still maintains that he was only a cameraman.”

Randy grits his teeth. “Recommendation?”

“Transfer to Abu Ghraib.”

Randy looks at Cliff. Cliff shrugs his shoulders.

“Denied,” Randy says slowly. He exhales hard. “We’ve got to break him.”

He looks over his audience. We’re all weary. All frustrated. Everyone’s been giving all they have to this mission. We score victories, but they are tactical ones. We need a strategic blow, one that will help stop the suicide bombings—one that will stop the civil war. But that one blow seems more elusive than ever.

We’re always one step behind Abu Musab al Zarqawi. Somehow, we’ve got to make up the distance.